


The Gift of Control

by strangeallure



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Dubious Consent, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, LLF Comment Project, Light Bondage, Mild Painplay, Mildly Dubious Consent, Porn, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Rituals, Rough Sex, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2019-03-25 09:48:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13831623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangeallure/pseuds/strangeallure
Summary: Set after the first film in the Kelvin timeline, "Star Trek" (2009).After Spock's planet is destroyed, he changes in a way Nyota can no longer take. She hopes an ancient Vulcan ritual will help her get through to him and establish a new emotional and sexual balance in their relationship.





	The Gift of Control

Everything changed the day his planet died.

Of course it did. How could anything stay the same when you lost your roots, your history, your mother – all in one instant? How could anything stay the same when – if only in the most twisted way – you were responsible for it?

Uhura had known things wouldn’t stay the same. Grief management was a vital part of any Starfleet education, so she had expected him to change, to go through the stages she had learned about, before he could come to terms with this new reality. She had read up on Vulcan attitudes towards grief and loss. She had prepared for being there for him, and she had prepared for giving him space. She had prepared for rage and for silence, for denial and even for a constant need to talk – he was half human, after all.

What she hadn’t prepared for was him splitting in two; compartmentalizing his loss into two seemingly contradictory strategies. She was not sure how much long she could take it.

Being with him had always been an emotional challenge. He didn’t talk about feelings; he talked about ambitions and tangible facts. He didn’t act passionately, but was thoughtful and measured. And sometimes, he didn’t talk or act at all. When there was no subject to discuss and no task to fulfill, he was content to just be silent and think. Even their lovemaking had always been slow and deliberate. Sometimes too slow, too controlled for her tastes.

Now everything was different.

He did not avoid talking about his home planet’s fate like she might have expected. But when he did, it remained abstract, detached. He talked about upholding Vulcan traditions and preserving their history. He talked about archival tasks, a new Vulcan colony and survivors’ responsibilities towards their heritage. He talked about himself as if he were merely a chess piece, moving just in the right way to protect the queen. She tried to tell herself that this was a Vulcan approach: focusing on responsibilities, damage control and even opportunities for growth, instead of focusing on what couldn’t be undone, on hurt and loss and anger. That thinking became talking became doing became coping.

But there was the other side, the one only she knew. The one time when he didn’t seem to think and talk, just take.

The night after he had lost his mother and his planet he had been at her door in the middle of the night, and she really hadn’t known what to expect at all. For a moment, she had thought he needed to talk, or even to be held, but then she had looked into his eyes, darker than she had ever seen them. He had pushed her back up against the wall, mouths crashing, teeth clicking, hands pressing and searching and tearing and clawing. He had grunted and moaned, hissed and howled. He hadn’t said one word.

It became a strange ritual. Every night – even if they had had dinner together, after which he always excused himself politely and with a chaste kiss – when the night crew had taken over and the ship’s corridors were mostly empty, he came to her quarters. The first thing he did was take her up against the wall, hard and fast. It was so new and exhilarating, but disconcerting at the same time, suspending her in a strange place between desire and concern, between primal appetites and it not feeling right.

That first time against the wall was usually too fast to make her come, leaving her panting and aching from the bruising pressure of his palms, the relentless pace of his thrusts. After, he carried her to the bedroom, making it up to her with his mouth, his fingers; drawing it out just long enough for him to be hard again, then bending her body to his will, crowding and claiming her, making her sear and sore, marking her everywhere. And then he left.

She was lucky to be friends with Trisha from sickbay, who was trustworthy and discrete and had given her a substantial supply of medication to bleach away her bruises and allow her to do her job without hurting all over the next day.

Every night, when he was gone and she tended to herself, deciding which bruise to keep and which to remove, she pondered the situation. And every night she became more uncertain.

At first, she had thought it might not be bad for him to have an outlet for those feelings. She even felt slightly … flattered that he trusted her enough to see him like this, to share this with her. But the more she thought about it, the less it seemed like sharing. The more she thought about it, the less she liked the words popping up in her head: desperation, displacement, punishment.

She didn’t dare broach the subject; she simply didn’t know whether her need for addressing this was in his best interest or in her own. Contemplation only added to confusion.

Her footing in their relationship had been so uneven from the beginning. He had started things so different, had been so different, had wanted things so different from what she was used to. It had thrown her off-kilter, had made her want him more, had made her want to be what he wanted. It had made her do what had seemed impossible before: forfeit control. For the first time, she had found a delicate balance with someone; filled not only with the unspoken, but with the undone. Passivity and self-restraint as tokens given and received.

And then he had gone and shattered that carefully established equilibrium between them, had left her wanting and doubting, torn wide open to her own desires.

She stroked one hand carefully over the bruised skin on her inner thigh, quivering at the touch, moving higher and higher and finally sliding two fingers inside herself, feeling the wetness she knew to be a mixture of her arousal and a bit of blood. Slowly, she pulled the fingers away and brought them to her lips. Her eyes widened as she looked at her fingertips, glistening in a darker shade of red than expected.

Something cracked and reconnected. She didn’t know what was right, but she knew what she would do, what she had to do.

\--

The force field was in place before he even knew what was happening.

One moment, he had started to excuse himself, about to get up and leave for the night, promising himself, as always, that he would not come back this time, would not subject her to this again, that he would be stronger; already knowing in the depths of himself that he would not succeed. He never did.

The next moment, he was bound to the chair by three rings of energy. It was a surprise, yes, but his education and experience did not fail him, possible explanations already starting to form in his mind, the necessary basis for an exit strategy. Looking up at her, however, only brought confusion.

Neither was she bound like him, nor did she seem disturbed at all. The look in her eyes was unreadable, and he thought that this should not surprise him. He had lost his ability to read her along with everything else. The connection between them not severed completely, but darkened, muted: a corridor with no light.

“Nyota.” His voice was low, tinged with authority. He could still make it sound that way, could tilt his head and give her a disapproving look. “Disengage the force field.”

She looked at him, focused and intent, and got up slowly; not walking towards him, but instead heading for a dresser on the side of the wall, taking out a wooden box he did not remember seeing before.

“Immediately.” He spoke calmly, but with more force.

She paid him no mind, walking deliberately and without hurry, setting the box down on the table in front of him and opening it carefully. She took out a small brown ball, which looked like it was made of leather, and weighed it in her right palm.

Her other hand moved around his neck, fingers light and warm against his skin. Suddenly, there was a hard grip, a backward pull that made his head snap up as she dug her fingers into his flesh. He could not help the involuntary gasp. She had clearly anticipated it and placed the ball between his teeth at just the right moment before pushing it in deep.

As he strained against the force field and worked his jaw in a vain attempt at spitting out the gag, her fingers on his nape relaxed again, stroking slowly, her other hand cupping his cheek.

“Yes, fight it. That’s good,” she said, licking her lips. She moved closer. “I will make you a gift.” Her voice was a whisper of hot breath against his ear. “I will give you _Tash ta’an_.”

His eyes widened. He had encountered the term in his studies. _Tash ta’an_ , the gift of control, was an ancient and apocryphal rite, not part of official Vulcan doctrine, but present in several ancestral texts nonetheless. He had read that it was still practiced occasionally, but only by _V'tosh ka'tur_ , ‘Vulcans without logic’, who believed that emotions and logic should be reconciled instead of pricing logic above all else and dismissing emotions altogether. However, he did not know the exact proceedings of the ritual.

Irrationally, he kept trying to move against the bands of energy keeping him in place. His mouth was drying up as the gag pushed against the back of his throat. Every swallow felt like he was cutting off his own air supply.

Why was she doing this? What were her motives? Was it because-

He was not ready to complete that thought; instead, he turned his attention back to her exclusively, to her mouth against his ear, her fingers stroking his skin.

“Shhh,” she breathed, pressing the side of her face to his, showing no reaction to his struggling.

Finally, he relaxed his body. His resistance obviously had no effect.

When she felt him go slack, she pulled away and took something out of the container on the table: several long stripes of fabric, seemingly of the same leather as the gag in his mouth.

She let them glide through her hands gently, then turned to him again and let the soft leather brush against his face, over his lips, pulling the stripes into a taut line as she moved them over the gag in his mouth and along his throat. She smiled and licked her lips before stepping to his left side. He followed with his eyes as well as he could without being able to move his upper body, until she had left his field of vision.

He felt her adjust the force field just enough so she could pull his arms around the back of the chair, tying his wrists together with leather. At first, the loops were loose, smooth material caressing more than binding him. Her nimble fingers slid over his skin, the sensation more acute than usual, intensified by the lightness of her touch and his inability to see her.

After a minute, she entered his field of vision again, looking at him darkly, her eyes promising something he could not decipher. She went down on her knees in front of him and pushed a button on a little device clipped to her skirt, adjusting the force field again, so she could take off his boots.

He considered using the additional legroom to try and escape, but realized that the force field keeping his torso in place and the minimal adjustment she had made to the one around his calves rendered this plan pointless.

She pulled off his socks and started rubbing a balled-up leather band over the skin exposed, before disentangling it and letting the length of it run through the space between his toes one by one. He tried not to curl his toes at the sensation, but felt the muscles in his legs pull taut. She smiled and started binding his ankles together, loops loose again, material soft against his skin.

When she was finished, she moved around quickly, once more out of sight, tugging lightly at his wrists and ankles in motions he did not understand. Then she stood in front of him again, eyes fixed on his. She put a loop of leather over his head and showed him two long straps hanging from the noose, down the middle of his chest. She pulled on one of them sharply.

He felt the restraints around his ankles and wrists pull tight. She smiled, satisfied, then clicked the small device on her hip again, deactivating the force field. She didn’t need it anymore. He was bound.

Slowly, she made a step with one leg, so it was pressing against his thigh. Her hand holding the leather straps moved to stroke his cheek, the touch all soft leather and warm skin. She put forward her other leg to straddle his thighs and tipped his head up with two fingers so he had to look up to her.

“This,” she pulled a few inches of the fabric taut between her fists, showing him the tan horizontal line, “is your leash.” She smiled, sweet and dark. “As you just found out, it is connected to both the bindings around your wrists and your ankles.” She fixed her eyes on his. “And your neck, of course.”

He raised his eyebrows, certainly she would not- Before he could finish the thought, she continued, eyes still fixed on his. “The knots are made so I won’t be able to strangle you. Not even if I wanted to. But I can pull your ankles all the way up to your wrists. And your wrist to your neck. I can bend you to my will.”

He hadn’t expected to feel a stir within himself the way he did. Anger, helplessness, disbelief and an unnamed thrill mixing and swirling, culminating in … anticipation.

“And,” there was a glimmer of amusement in her voice, “I can loosen the ties again with the other strap – if I think you deserve it.”

Abruptly, she got up and turned towards the box, taking out a small glass item he recognized as a Vulcan ritual vase, which she placed at the center of the table. She pulled a long, thin stick of wood from the container as well as a small jar. Scooping up a white paste from the container, she rubbed it carefully all over the stick’s surface.

Her voice was steady and calm as she said, “The first step is taken. Control is a choice. The path is laid out. Control is a responsibility. The _orensu_ is bound. Control is a gift.” _Orensu_ , he thought: _student_. He told himself that there were no lessons for him to learn, not from her, not from an apocryphal ritual. He had to make her stop.

She put the tip of the wooden stick to the bridge of his nose and let it run along his profile, leaving a trail of herbal smell on his skin. “Control is my gift to you.”

When she had reached his Adam’s apple, she put the stick into the vase on the table.

Turning back to him, she said, “The second step is struggling.” Her eyes and voice held a challenge: “Show me how much you hate being bound. Show me how much you want control.”

If he would just refrain from cooperating, if he would just sit still, show no reaction and not participate in her ritual, she would have to give up and let him go. He forced his breathing to remain calm, relaxing his fists and letting his feet go slack against the bindings.

“Come on, Spock,” she lured. “You hate this, don’t you? Being tied-up, being without control, being at my mercy.” He simply held still.

Her face pulled into a knowing smile. “Oh, you think you are in control still, don’t you? You think if you don’t cooperate, I’ll let you go.” She brought her index finger to her lips and sucked on it. “Don’t worry, Spock. I will _make_ you cooperate. I will _make_ you fight this.”

“Even when you think you’re in control, you’re not.” She swiftly straddled him again, her breasts so close to his face as he concentrated on his breathing. “During our little, well-controlled dinners, I can see the way your eyes darken when I take a sip from my glass or suck sauce from my finger.” She bent her knees, almost sitting on his lap now, and started sucking the flesh on her fingers. He schooled his face into an emotionless expression.

She let out a low chuckle. “Even now I can see it, when you try to hide it so desperately.” She cocked her head slightly. “But it’s almost time, isn’t it? Right about now, you’d be struggling with yourself in your quarters. Trying not to come here, but knowing you will. Because you’re not in control, because you’re out of control, because you need me.”

He felt her words have an effect on him he could not name, but he stayed calm, immobile. This was so unlike the obliging, pliant woman he knew.

Her tongue dragged slowly over her bottom lip. “I will show you how out of control you are. I will make you struggle for it.”

She reached behind herself, bending far back so she could reach the box on the table, pressing herself against his lap as she did so. Her hand came back with a small silver blade, and he could not help his eyes widening as he swallowed around the gag, a vaguely nauseous feeling in his closed-off throat.

Her eyes narrowed. “Yes, I could hurt you with this.” She brought the blade close to his neck. “But I won’t. I will merely show you what I can do – and that you cannot do anything about it.”

He forced himself to not close his eyes as she brought her mouth to his ear. “And just so you can tell me how much you hate this, I will take out the gag.”

As soon as it was out, he swallowed convulsively a few times. “Nyota. Let me go. This is absurd.” He ignored the cracks in his voice and the parched feeling in his mouth and throat.

Her voice was all deliberate husk when she said, “Yeah, that’s good: indignation.” She rolled her hips against his. “Go on, command me to let you go again. Talk yourself into a rage.”

“Nyota.” He tried one more time, putting a dark authority into his words that sounded unfamiliar even to himself. She pulled back to look at him and smiled, eyes burning.

He swallowed hard and decided to change tactics again and ignore her. If he stayed steadfast, she would not be able to continue. This time, he closed his eyes, so she could not tease him with her looks, with her body.

“Oh, Spock, you think this will be easier if you close your eyes.” Her voice was at his ear again, “I can promise you, it will be so much harder.” She stroked her hand over his lap.

He felt the cool blade against his neck, but made himself not react. There was a strange movement at his collar and then a sudden pull. “I’m getting you out of your uniform. Tearing it apart, shredding it from your body. Just because I can. Just because you can’t do anything about it.”

He felt her cut and tear and pull his clothes from him, trying fiercely not to react in any way. If he just stayed calm, she would have to give up soon.

\--

She crouched down next to him, ripping the last of his pants away and leaving him with only his underwear. For a few moments, she questioned what she was doing. Thoughts started swirling in her head. This was insane. She had just bound and undressed the man she loved against his will. She had just bound and undressed a _superior officer_ against his will. All in the name of a strange ritual, which wasn’t approved by official Vulcan doctrine and which she had already started taking liberties with.

There had been no need to straddle him; there had been no indication in the descriptions of the ritual that more than his upper body needed to be bared. There had been no mentions of the heady rush she was feeling looking at him, toned calves and muscled thighs, strong arms, dark hair on his chest, around his navel, black lashes shadowing his cheeks. All hers for the taking, for taking back control.

Before him, she had been more active, a little more aggressive with her partners, yes. But not like this. Never like this.  

She still wanted the ritual to work, to help him, but she was so turned on all the same. It wasn’t just about what he needed anymore; it was about what she needed, too.

Taking one deep breath, she looked up at him. She had gone too far to go back. If this didn’t work, there would be repercussions. He wouldn’t forgive her. She wouldn’t forgive herself. But now – now she would go all out. No holds barred.

She brought the blade to the waistband of his underwear and proceeded to strip him naked.

She continued to tease him with words, with touches, with soft slaps of the wooden ritual sticks, but he showed no reaction.

The description of _Tash ta’an_ had explained that some subjects tried to remove themselves from the proceedings through meditation – and how to take away that mental refuge. The mere idea of what she was about to do made her more aware of her own body, of her breathing, her skin, the blood thrumming through her.

Smiling, she turned to the box on the table and took out the replica of a Klingon painstik she had swiped from the ship’s close combat training facility. She set the current level on low and stepped behind him, bending over him. Her one arm wound around him and she stroked his collarbone as she whispered in his ear. “I give you one last chance to cooperate. Start fighting now – or I will make you.”

When he didn’t react, she trailed the painstik, not yet activated, down his neck, the cool metal grazing his skin. She followed the path with her tongue.

Before she moved the device back up, she pushed the button. A slight vibration ran through her hand and she saw that he tried not to react, but there was a new tension in his muscles, the hairs on his nape standing up slightly.

She alternated pushing and releasing the button as she walked around him to be able to see his face, careful to never lose contact with his skin.  The tension was obvious in him, and she could see small crinkles forming around his closed eyes as he tried to keep his focus. Her breathing hitched slightly. He was so strong, unyielding, controlled. The perfect challenge.

An electric tingle was obviously not enough to make him cooperate. She could always increase the current. And she did. The jolt came sudden and this time, his whole body pulled tight and she saw him clenching his jaw, biting back a groan. She felt herself clench in return, the tingle in her own body collecting in her womb.

The desire to feel his tension, be close to him, was overwhelming. She straddled his lap, pressing herself against him. “Still so determined not to lose it, are you? Still all bottled up, Spock. Still so hot.”

She caressed his shoulder, and then gave him another jolt. As he tensed, his body arching slightly, she pressed herself down against him, feeling the tension, rubbing deliberately against his groin. When she felt the twitch of his cock against her, she had to bite back a groan.

“Oh, so you like that, do you? What do you like more? My skin on yours? My body against yours? Or is it just the pain? Do you like how I can make you feel it, Vulcan boy?”

She wound tighter and tighter, excited by the power she had and by her own words. She simply couldn’t stop. “That was only the medium setting, Spock. If you don’t fight it now, I’ll go all the way to high. Real pain, Spock. All for you. But maybe that’s what you want, isn’t it? Pain. Punishment.”

She traced his features with the inactive painstik, then went on, down his throat, all the way to his solar plexus. She set the slider on high and pressed the button.

He threw his head back, groaning loudly, as all his muscles pulled tight and he arched up against her. She felt him harden further, even as his body relaxed after the jolt, and he kept his eyes shut. So stubborn. She shook her head even though he couldn’t see her.

Licking over his bottom lip, she started kissing him, feeling him tense as she rolled her hips against his. She felt the strain in his body, the excitement; she knew it wasn’t just her. He was so close to breaking, she just had to _make him_.

The next shock prompted another groan and she swallowed it, taking the opportunity to push her tongue between his lips, rubbing against him, feeling him all hard against her.

When she pushed the button a third time, he howled and pulled away. His eyes opened wide and his voice was raw. “No. Nyota. No.”

“Yes,” she breathed, continuing to rock against him.

“Stop it.” He strained against his ties, trying to get her off of himself.

“Yeah, come on. Tell me how much you hate this, show me,” she taunted, steadying herself against his shoulders.

He writhed beneath her, fierce and frantic, and it was electrifying, the way he moved against her, fought her, held his ground when she tried pushing him down. “Let me go. Stop this now.”

“Why should I?”

“This is absurd. You cannot do this.”

He bucked violently beneath her, taking his feet off the ground, trying to pull them towards the back of the chair, trying to gain enough leeway on the leash connecting his ankles and wrists to allow him pulling his hands over his head. It was hopeless, she was pretty sure, but the way his body twisted and turned, the force with which he suddenly fought his constraints was like nothing she had ever seen in him. She almost fell off of him, his powerful movements catching her off guard. She thought about tightening the leash, shortening the strip of leather connecting his bindings, but decided to just ride it out instead.

He fought her for a while longer, bucking and sweating and shouting how she should let him go, but she held her ground. Taunting him when his movements threatened to go slower, reveling in the physical and vocal display of emotions.

Finally, he sagged together, drained, his voice weak. “You cannot do this.”

“But I can. And you want me to.” She felt her breathing heavy and ragged, darkening her own voice as she let her hand trail down his chest, the sweat on his skin beneath her fingers. The way he squirmed still, the way his voice seemed fractured, broken, left her on edge.

“No. No. No.” He said as she wrapped her hand around his cock, trying to pull away from her.

“So hard, Spock. So hot. Tell me why I should stop.” She moved her hand slowly up and down, deliberately, as she murmured against his cheek.

“This is wrong.” She had never heard that tone in his voice, almost pleading. “This is all wrong.”

She bit his neck, hard, and positioned the painstik on his ribcage, shooting another pulse of electricity through him.

Howling with a desperate, animal sound, his body tightened and arched towards her.

“Please,” he breathed.

\--

His voice was raw, as were his muscles. Never before had he exerted himself to this degree outside of a combat situation.

He knew the feelings she made him act out. He had felt them well up anew and swallow him whole every night. Now it was different, though; she had turned it into something different. The restraints keeping his body in place, her unrelenting touch and the physical pain she inflicted, it all combined into a hall of mirrors.

Before, he had lost himself with her at night, but now she made him see. See the need and the ugliness and the anger. He was weak and a part of him wanted to be weak, to be weak with her.

It all culminated in that one word, “Please.”

Suddenly, the painstik fell to the floor, and she grabbed his face with both hands. Her eyes were intent, her sole focus on him. “Why does it have to be wrong? Why can’t you have this?”

The question was more than he could bear to think about. “I … I cannot …”

“Spock. This one time. Let me in,” she coaxed.

“I should not …” He tore his face away from her hands, but he was still caught in her gaze.

He felt out of time, displaced, like he lived in only this one moment. He felt every cell of his skin where they touched, where her warmth seeped into him. He felt the pressure of her weight, her breath on his damp face, but most of all, he felt her eyes on him. They were mirrors, too.

Something broke, and words pushed out of his mouth.

“Take me, Nyota,” he said.

A dam broke inside his chest, threatening to break bone and tear flesh, but instead of the ravenous tide he had anticipated – he had feared –, there was emptiness.

A range of emotions crossed her face, their succession too quick to name any of them. He did not need to know anymore. If he had to, she would show him.

“Which way do you want to be taken?” she asked, caution in her voice.

He felt the tension in her, and it seeped into him just like her body heat. He wanted to give the right reply. A part of him always wanted to get the answer right.

He breathed in deeply. “Your way.”

The truth in his words seemed to please her.

“I will keep you bound,” she assured him. It might have been another test, but he did not stop to ponder his response.

“Then I will be bound.”

Her left hand briefly caressed his face before she slowly got to her feet.

There was an almost imperceptible tremble in her legs, and he realized it was from the strain of keeping on top of him while he had struggled. She was strong, mentally and physically, and with sudden clarity, he saw that her strength had always been what he was most drawn to.

She stood in front of the table again, her stance sure and graceful. This time, she took two thin sticks from the wooden box and a second jar, containing a dark green substance. Her fingers slowly rubbed the green paste all over the wood.

She turned to him, a stick in each hand. “The second step is taken. Control is a choice. The path is begun. Control is a responsibility. The _orensu_ is done struggling. Control is a gift.”

With that, she started slapping his arms and shoulders in measured motions, leaving green marks on his skin.

His eyes met hers as his body received the light blows. He could accept them now, see them as tokens of affection and care. Every touch of the wood, ever stain of color on his skin lightened his load.

Her eyes never left him, but they wandered his body until there was an abrupt swallow working her throat when she looked at his groin, where he had begun to swell again.

A slight smile formed on her lips, and she trailed the two sticks from his knees up to his hips. “Control is my gift to you.”

She turned and put the sticks in the ritual vase. Then she slid onto his lap again, holding his head in her hands. “Now let me take care of you.”

\--

Exhilaration coursed through her body and drugged her system as she had him laid out before her, bound and pliant on the sheets of her bed.

His muscles were still tight, knotted from months of built-up tension, but his face was more relaxed than she had seen in a long while; his expression unguarded, ready to receive orders without question. Her orders. All fibers in her body seemed alight, the thrill making her aware of everything: the smell of his sweat and the rise and fall of his bare chest, the fabric of her dress against her skin and the dampness of her panties, the way they clung to her pussy. All her movements, her thoughts, were heavy with want.

“Turn onto your stomach,” she said, hoarseness in her voice.

He immediately did as he was told, and the sight made her clench hard, getting her even wetter.

She took off her boots and stockings, but kept her underwear and dress on, taking her sweet time, making him wait. Finally, she straddled the small of his back, and he groaned beneath her, his body pressing upward and into her.

“Hold still,” she commanded, before she took a jar of lotion out of her nightstand.

As she dug two fingers into the substance, she gave an involuntary sigh. The cream felt smooth and pleasantly cool on her too-hot skin, but it was not for her.

There was the merest shift in his body as she touched the nape of his neck to apply the cold lotion. Carefully, she spread it all over the skin of his shoulders and back, relishing the touch, faintly rocking her hips in time with her motions.

Then she set to work. She kneaded his muscles with strong, sure strokes, forcing the tension out of his body with hands that weren’t gentle. Gentle wasn’t what he needed, and she delighted in feeling like she knew what he did need; that he trusted her to know it for him.

He held still beneath her, but she could hear the pain-pleasure sounds he bit into her pillow. _Good._

When his muscles had turned hot and pliant, she stopped abruptly and got up on her knees.

“Turn around,” she said. “And not a word.”

The rub of his body against hers as he turned was exquisite, made even better by the sight of his cock straining towards his stomach. She couldn’t help pushing down against his hips as he moved.

His face was still unusually open, but his eyes were deliciously dark.

She looked pointedly at his cock and puckered her lips. “You really enjoyed the massage, I see.”

He opened his mouth, but seemed to remember her order to stay silent at the last moment, and simply nodded.

She smiled slowly and ran her finger over his mouth, taking note of a raw brittleness brought on by a combination of the leather gag and his continued screaming. She couldn’t wait to feel that roughness against her lips, against her cunt.

Instead, she took hold of his cock, feeling its hot weight in her palm, breathing in deeply so she could smell it, so he could see her smell it. She bent his cock back so it was trapped between her thighs, pressing against her panties, soaked wet by now. Her eyes didn’t leave his as her hand found her pussy, spreading her lips apart so the tip of his cock slipped against her opening as far as the fabric would allow. The increased contact felt good, setting her nerve endings on fire, making her clench and circle her hips. Her breath came damp and heavy, and she could feel the hardness of her nipples rubbing against her bra. It was almost too much.

“Do you want more?” she asked and her voice came out shaky.

He pressed his lips together, the skin around his mouth going white with how much he wanted to talk, but he only nodded.

“Then take off my panties.” She wanted it to come out as an order, but it might have been a plea.

In one deft motion with his still-bound hands, he tore at the fabric and threw it aside. The tip of his cock slipped right in, and she groaned with how much she wanted it. It took her a moment to realize that he held completely still beneath her.

A new, satisfied smile formed on her lips. “That’s right,” she said, sliding her hand over the pulse hammering in his throat, then cupping his cheek. “I didn’t tell you to move.” It was a power surge that helped her control her own desire. Her mouth opened over his ear and she pressed her still-clothed torso against his chest. “You’re such a good boy.”

She righted herself and let her hips roll in a slow, smooth rhythm. He visibly pressed his arms, his hands, even his head into the mattress to keep from straining towards her – all because he was obeying her orders. She clenched around him on every upwards movement, like she couldn’t have him close enough, and she felt tiny pushes from his hips in turn that he couldn’t fully control.

It cost her a lot of willpower, but without warning, she got up and stood beside the bed. He looked at her, dazed.

For a long while, she held his gaze. Then she took off her clothes. The hunger in his eyes was like a physical thing, swallowing up every part of her: sweat on her neck, between her breasts and thighs. Her nipples so taut that it hurt and her breath much too quick and shallow. She was all he could see, she knew. Down to the way her toes curled into the carpet and the way her butt clenched involuntarily, pushing her hips forward.

It was torture to take her time in unbinding him, her naked skin brushing against his as she worked.

She should have anticipated this as the moment of truth. If he had only played along to get free, this could mean the end of everything – their relationship and her career. But she didn’t have room for this kind of thought, she was consumed by want.

“Get up,” she said, eyes fixed on his cock, straining big and proud towards his stomach, glistening with a mix of his own wetness and hers.

When he stood, still silent, with his pulse pounding visibly in his neck and his chest heaving with heavy breaths, she curled her lips and crawled onto the bed.

“Fuck me.” She locked eyes with him over her shoulder. “Fuck me hard.”

\--

He plunged inside her wet heat, hands gripping at her hips, his stance wide enough to give him good leverage.

Before, he had liked this position for a simple reason: not seeing her face had made it easier to lose himself, to forget. Now, she had chosen it; she had asked him to take her this way. The curve in her back, the way she pushed into his thrusts, the strain visible in the muscles in her arms and legs: everything about her body told him she wanted exactly what he gave her.

Her skin was shining with sweat all over and he could feel it mingle with his own. The sounds she made, low-pitched and primal, and the sounds their bodies made, wet, greedy slaps, they filled his mind like a feedback loop. His senses seemed more acute now, tuned solely into her. He could feel her, see her, hear her, smell her, was enveloped in her, and without conscious thought he bent his body over hers, so he could lap at her throat and her shoulder blades, so he could taste her, too.

“Use your teeth a little,” she grunted, the first words since he had pushed inside her.

He obeyed, scraping his teeth along her artery, nipping at the nape of her neck. The tension in her body grew, the movements of her pelvis becoming chopped off, seeking even more friction. He moved one hand around her, between her legs, and began stimulating her.

She groaned, loud and long, and a stream of barely intelligible praise spilled from her lips. Everything about her was saying _yes_ , everything about her wanted what he had to offer.

He switched fingers and continued rubbing her clitoris with his thumb, freeing two fingers to tease her opening, feeling himself pump in and out of her. When he slid in one finger next to his penis, she cried out. When he pressed in with a second, his rhythm on her clitoris never letting up, his teeth teasing at the tendons in her throat, she came. She convulsed around him several times, cut off groans echoing loudly in her quarters as he kept thrusting inside her.

He gripped her hips tight again with both hands and sped up his pace, when he realized she had said something.

“I said stop now.” Her breathing was ragged, but her tone unmistakable.

He was so close.

\--

She was still riding her own high when she remembered the last stage of the ritual. For a moment, she was anxious, unsure what to do, but then she reminded herself that right now, she was in control. He had _given_ her control.  

She knew how close he was, could feel it in his grip, in the way his thrusts started to lose rhythm. She ordered him to stop.

He heard her the second time. He stopped.

She disentangled herself from him and sat down on the bed, motioning for him to sit beside her.

He sat down heavy on the mattress, shoulders slumped and rib cage moving with gulping breaths. There was that special quality to his face, the unearthly shine physical exertion gave someone with Vulcan blood.

“You stopped,” she said. Her voice was raw, but she was sure he couldn’t miss the hint of wonder in it.

He nodded.

Swiftly, she positioned herself on the floor below him, spreading his knees wide with her hands. Her eyes found his and her lips curled.

“Now, let me take care of you.”

\--

Her mouth felt amazing around him. Wet, hot suction combined with her one hand around his shaft, the other cradling his testicles. The sight of her in front of him only increased his excitement: her face determined, her only aim to give him pleasure. And when she slyly wet two fingers and began rubbing at his hole, he could not take it anymore. He did not want to hold back.

While he was still coming, she gripped the root of his penis and pulled her mouth away, drops of semen staining her lips. Her hand guided him confidently, letting his remaining come hit her throat and her chest.

Now they were both marked.

She got up and brushed her lips over his tenderly. Then she gestured for him to follow her.

He thought he knew why. When she took three more sticks out of the box on the table, it proved his assumption.

She coated each stick with both substances she had used before: white on the one side, green on the other. Then she stepped in front of him, smiling a relaxed, open smile.

She traced his arms with all three sticks, leaving a pattern. Then she handed him the sticks.

"The third step is taken. Control is a choice. The path is yours. Control is a responsibility. The _orensu_ may now choose his master. Control is a gift."

He smiled and lifted his hand. Carefully, he traced her arms in the same way as she had done, leaving the same pattern.

Her lips curled and she swallowed.

She held out her hand, and he returned the paint-stained sticks. She put them into the ritual vase and produced an old-fashioned matchbook from the box.

She put the matchbook in his hand. “Control is my gift to you,” she said with a warm voice.

Carefully, he lit the sticks in the vase. A heavy scent filled the air.

“Let’s go to bed,” she said and took his hand.

He smiled as he followed. “Thank you.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a long time ago, but never posted it anywhere. Now that _Star Trek: Discovery_ has reawakened my fannish side, I decided to share this story, especially since I still love Spock and Uhura.
> 
> I owe a large debt of gratitude to [frangipani](http://archiveofourown.org/users/frangipani/pseuds/frangipani), who prompted me to write this and helped shape this fic with her amazing beta skills. Thank you!
> 
> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), whose goal is to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites:
> 
>  **Feedback** : short comments, long comments, questions, constructive criticism, "<3" as extra kudos, reader-reader interaction
> 
> [LLF Comment Builder](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/post/170952243543/now-presenting-the-llf-comment-builder-beta)  
>   
>  **Author Responses** : This author replies to comments.


End file.
